


Everything's green

by beautifulwhensarcastic



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Ireland, mildly drunk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 21:07:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2706776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifulwhensarcastic/pseuds/beautifulwhensarcastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A heavily rainy day brings an unexpected customer to McGarrett's pub.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything's green

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a response to McRollins Hiatus Meme.

He turns the volume of the player up as the heavy rain outside pings on the rooftop and window sills, drowning out the old folk melody. Steve knows it by heart and, to be honest, is slightly fed up with it, but if he turns the music off, those two old, grumpy morons will start whining and then go into a greatly detailed conversation about how every single tune is part of national heritage.

Then they'd finish it up with a chain of cussing and spitting at the British Empire.

So it's better to leave it playing, and between the sounds of the downpour and bits of bickering coming from the corner booth it's not even that annoying. Steve wipes the freshly washed glasses, glancing at the table where two men are seated, engaged in a chess game and typical banter. He shakes his head when one of them accuses the other of being responsible for their boring retirement.

"And what did you expect, dad?" Steve asks, looking at them indulgently, "That you're gonna run around the jungle with a machete when you're sixty?"

John McGarrett and Joe White are not only the daily customers of the pub, but also the owners, a fact which they always remind him whenever he tries to talk them out of drinking their tenth beer each. Not that he really worries about the amount of alcohol, after all they're Irish, their blood is kind of genetically mixed with beer and whisky. They've threatened him a couple of times with disowning him, but they enjoy the retirement, complete with not having to deal with customers, bureaucracy and suppliers. And most of all the tourists, which swarm the pub during the season, thinking that an Irish pub is exactly like the ones they've seen on TV. Steve is not really fond of them either, especially when they order Guinness and then cringe, because they hadn't expected it to be so strong and bitter.

"I am not yet sixty!" John protests immediately, glaring at his son, "I'm fifty-eight, it's a perfectly middle age, thank you. And no, I didn't mean running with a machete..."

"Cause you would cut hand off with it within the first ten minutes of picking it up," Joe snorts at him, taking a sip of his beer. His snicker mixes with Steve's laughter, both of them amused by John's highly indignant face.

Narrowing his eyes, he spits back at his old, annoying friend, "Says the man who got shot straight in the butt." The story about Joe White getting shot in the ass was known not only by their whole family, but also by every regular client of this bar, but then again there was a lot of storytelling about the time when John and Joe were police partners.

"It was your fault!" White retorts back, pointing a finger at him.

"Yeah, yeah," John dismisses him with a wave of hand, before moving one of the pieces on the chessboard and turning back to his son, "I mean excitement, Steven. An adventure, or at least having something that shakes up your life. You're young, you were in The Naval Service, and now you're sitting behind the counter everyday. Don't you want something exciting in your life?"

Steve doesn't even flinch or roll his eyes at the once again brought up topic of his previous naval career, which he gladly abandoned to take over the small pub. He had had his fair share of adventures and excitement, and having a simple, average life and job is what he wants right now.

"You two trying to hot-wire your old car when drunk was pretty exciting to me," he scoffs at them, "No need for more adventures."

Just as he says it, the entrance door opens and a soaked bundle of human being stumbles inside.

The door bangs open loudly, the heavy downpour, which looks almost like a grey wall visible through the open door, sounds even louder. The person closes the door with a thump, making the three men jump slightly in their places. John and Joe lean out from their corner, peering at the unexpected intruder. The hellish rainy weather would never stop customers from appearing in the pub, but at this hour everyone is still at work or eating dinners with their families, the pub life starts at about seven in the evening.

But as Steve takes in the appearance of the sodden guest, it becomes clear it's not a potential, typical bar client.

It's a woman.

Not that women don't visit the pub, quite the contrary, they have at least a dozen regular ladies here. They don't look like  _this_  though, or rather don't dress like this. The fabric of something that was probably a very elegant green dress is now completely soaked, clinging to the woman's slender body. A shawl in an unrecognizable color is wrapped around her shoulders, but doesn't provide any warmth as it's soggy as well. In one hand she clutches a pair of golden stilettos, the other holding a tiny purse, which seems to be the only item not entirely soaked.

Steve stares at the woman, mostly shocked by the fact she's standing there barefoot, leaving wet footprints on the floor. Her painted toes wiggle as her whole body shivers, wet strands of dark hair sticking to her face in a pattern of a messy spiderweb.

And suddenly a splutter of muffled, but still unmistakable expletives falls from the girl's lips as she shakes herself, brushing the wet hair away from her face.

"Can I help you?" the stupid question leaves Steve's mouth, before he fully processes what he's saying. But the realization of silliness of that question instantly makes him stutter in embarrassment, especially with the way three pairs of eyes look up at him. John and Joe glaring at him like he's a complete moron, while the woman stares at him in mild confusion.

To make up for his previous mind-blankness, he quickly moves from behind the counter, grabbing a few towels from the shelf underneath it. "Sorry," he mutters apologetically, throwing one of the towels around her shoulders, "Please, ma'am, come on in." Guiding her toward the table that is closest to the kitchen, the warmest spot in the pub, he hands her another towel.

"Thank you," a soft whisper is barely heard because she's shivering so hard.

"Gonna get you some tea," Steve helps her onto the chair, spreading the third towel over her knees. He freezes momentarily and stares at her dumbfounded when she states in a stronger, confident tone, "Actually I prefer whisky."

Her brown irises shimmer with golden flecks, tiny black spots from the washed mascara adorn her eyelids, but her gaze is perfectly clear and fierce, lips trembling only because of the cold. Steve instantly realizes that she's not any kind of a damsel in distress, more like she could even be the actual cause of trouble. If she wasn't soaked and shivering like a poor, fluffy duckling, that is.

With no intention to persuade her otherwise, he just nods and moves behind the counter, opening one of the bottles of their beset whisky and pouring it into the glass. He places the drink on the table in front of her, glancing as she wipes her body with the given towels, her pale fingers still slightly shaking, but regaining their normal color. His gaze follows the movement of her fingers reaching for the glass and the way her lips quickly pink up as she takes a long, solid sip, cringing a bit as it goes down her throat.

Steve can't help a smile when she makes an appreciative noise and takes another gulp. The tip of her tongue darts out to lick over her bottom lip, the movement catching Steve's attention and he quickly turns his head away, scolding himself mentally.

"Steven," John's voice resounds suddenly, shaking off all those thoughts about spicy tasting lips. Steve tilts his head, looking up at his father. "Give the poor girl some clothes," the man motions toward the brunette covered in damp towels. In that state not only will the clothes fail to dry, but she might catch a cold, if not pneumonia. The girl shakes her head as if about to dismiss the help, but Steve doesn't even spare her a glance before turning around and disappearing behind the door with a sign that reads,  _Private - Don't enter you idiot_.

Her eyes are glued to his back as he walks out, and then they shift to that sign and she chuckles, shaking her head. The whisky is slowly spreading warmth through her body, but the wet clothes still cling to her skin, making it impossible to sustain the likable body temperature.

Catherine can only blame herself, she knows that, though cursing at the weather is more effective and she mutters under her breath about the hellish Irish climate. A tiny pang of satisfaction nourishes the evil little monster under her skin, when she realizes the heavy downpour probably ruined the perfect tuille and organza decorations around the manor from which she fled. Scraps of the day come back to her, evoking a sour grimace on her face and she eagerly swallows it with a long gulp of spicy alcohol.

Her pretty golden stilettos are practically ruined, even though she took them off after walking for a few kilometers and continued her march barefoot, feet dipping in the mud and soggy grass. But no matter how heavy the rain was, or even if a storm hit full force, she would not go back there. No, not going to happen. She decided to march forward, find some place to hide in for a few days and then get back to the city. Sure, they would find her there sooner or later, but she prefered later.

"Here you go," a soft, low voice draws her attention and Catherine lifts her head up, looking at the bartender - well, she assumed he's a bartender, considering he was behind the counter wiping the glasses when she came in.

A dark T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants he's handing her are definitely too big for her, but they're dry, soft and she really needs something to change into. Taking them from his hands, their fingertips brushing slightly, she stands up and goes in the pointed direction, to the bathroom. Few minutes later she emerges freshly changed, not shivering anymore. The grey sweatpants are sliding from her hips and she has to tie them really tightly, the T-shirt with some washed out nautical motives reaches past her mid thigh.

Catherine's gaze lands on the table, where beside the refilled glass of whiskey is a cup of hot tea with a slice of lemon and two sugar cubes on the side. The nice, though stubborn gesture makes her smile.

She hangs the dress and shawl on the chairs in the hope that they will slowly dry. Taking first a long sip of whisky, she reaches for the tea cup, which provides a lovely warm sensation seeping through her fingers.

Cath looks at her fingernails, embroided with golden swirls. The nagging about gold being the main motive and color at the wedding, made her paint them like that, not to mention buying that pair of awfully expensive stilettos. At least she wasn't the maid of honor and didn't have to parade in that bauble-shaped golden dress. The memory of all those golden speckles, ribbons, and shining tiaras makes her cringe. Thank God she doesn't have to spend more time there, spending the night in that room - of course filled also with all the gifts for the golden couple, because heaven forbid she could have the bedroom just to herself, she needed to be burdened with more.

The sudden realization that she succesfully escaped, but in fact didn't have any idea where to go, hits her with a pang of slight panic. She barely walked here through that downpour, how would she get home? Not even knowing what town she is in.

Glancing at the man behind the counter, who is now filling small baskets with salted peanuts, she ponders her options. Sliding out of her chair she slowly tiptoes toward the counter.

Instinctively she looks around, assessing her surroundings. The bar is practically empty, only the polite bartender and two elder men in the corner booth playing chess. If she heard right, the man behind the counter is Steve, but it feels weird to call him by this name, even if she's probably wearing his clothes. That thought makes her blush, fingers clenching nervously at the hem of the big T-shirt as she glances at the tall man on the opposite side of the bar.

It's not the best situation to be noticing that he is handsome, so she quickly averts her gaze which lingered on the profile of his face.

"Um," she bites her lower lip hesitantly, fingers drumming on the wooden counter as she tries to draw his attention, "Can I book a room here? At least for tonight?"

When she saw the stone building with a green boardsign "McGarrett's Pub" she didn't even think for a moment if it was a good place to stay in, she just needed to get under some roof and wait out the rain.

Steve lifts his head up, looking at her sympathetically, "Sorry, it's just a pub," he shakes his head, offering a small, apologetic smile. Her still damp, dark hair leaves small wet spots on the shirt, which is obviously too big for her. She looks small and kind of helpless in his clothes, with shades of make up still visible on her eyelids. Inner instinct evokes the need to help her, to protect her, but something tells him she's actually not the kind of woman who would need saving. Besides, they really don't rent out rooms.

"Please, I can sleep here or in the shed, anywhere," the vibe in her voice isn't urgency, nor despair, more like... negotiating. Sighing, she looks him straight in the eye and announces, "I just can't go back there."

"Go back where?" Curiosity gets the best of Steve, but he has a hard time imagining why a woman in a clearly elegant dress would be stranded in the middle of a storm, far away from any city where all those fancy parties and restaurants are.

After all, they are practically in the middle of nowhere. Clearmore is an old, small Irish town on one of the traveller's paths to Ring of Kerry, sometimes a few hikers would come along, but not brunettes in gold high heels.

Tilting her head to the side, Catherine regards him for a moment. Granted, she had been to many bars, but never had taken part in the stereotypical conversation with a bartender. On the other hand, she never ran away from anything either, so apparently it's a day of firsts for everything.

"I ran away from a wedding," she announces, shrugging nonchalantly. At the man's quick glance at her soaked dress, she adds with a snort, "Not mine obviously."

That would be a sight - a runaway bride, stumbling into the pub in a soggy white dress. But a running bride Steve could even understand, many motives and opportunities, while he didn't quite get why anyone else would be escaping a free party. He narrows his eyes, scanning her body for any visible injuries that could indicate she got in some kind of trouble, or was running away from someone who tried to harm her.

"Why would you run away from someone's wedding?" he asks, eyes still glued to her form, but aside the little speckles of dirt on her neck, there's nothing alarming.

Catherine smirks, placing her elbows on the counter and propping her head on one of her hands. "There's so much a girl can stand..." A bitter chuckle escapes her lips, "My sister marrying my ex-boyfriend is one thing, but my mother trying to set me up was too much."

Steve raises his brows, hesitating for a moment if he should even believe this story. Pushing one of the peanuts-filled baskets towards her, he asks, "Your sister married your boyfriend?" And it's more of a question of what kind of sister could be so selfish and heartless to even date such a guy, who - clearly - is a dick.

"Ex-boyfriend. Yup," she nods, her voice not bearing any tone of sadness or bitterness. She picks one of the peanuts and pops it in her mouth, "If that's not cliched enough for you, she actually got married where I wanted, in a dress I wanted and yet my mother accused me of making a bitter spinster show, because I came to the wedding alone," swallowing another peanut, she adds, "It's not like I wore black and a mourning veil."

"Did you want to?" he smirks. Somehow, judging by the way her brown eyes shimmer mischievously, he's sure the petite brunette can be a real firecracker.

Catherine actually grins at that. "Nah," she licks the salt off her finger, "Thought about adding some laxigen to their champagne..."

"Well that would serve for a very, uh, adventurous wedding night," Steve snickers, joining her in the mirth-evoking vision. He values a good prank, did a fair share of his own while in the Naval Service.

His grin is so broad and goofy, making his face take on a boyish look, reminding her of a playful kid who ate all the chocolate cookies. Catherine tilts her head to the side, watching closely as he checks one of the kegs, a smile still on his lips. He doesn't remind her of all the bartenders she had met, opposite to their sly grins or bored tough expressions, he seems to be genuinely natural. Clearly, he's not in it for the money and judging by the whole atmosphere, it's not the kind of pub where single women hit on the bartender. Though, on the other hand, he's definitely hit-able.

She pushes those thoughts aside, trying to focus back on the more important topic. The rain is still heavily pouring down, banging on the rooftop and splashing on windows. With a sigh she glances at the clock hanging on the wall, it's getting quite late. "Maybe you can point me to where I can find a room to stay for the night?" Even if the weather was sunny, she wouldn't exactly plan on sleeping under the night sky, "Some motel nearby, maybe?"

Steve shakes his head, "Nothing near. There's Honey Cottage on the other side of the river, about twenty kilometers from here. They rent rooms to hikers and tourists," he ponders for a moment, looking at the girl, before offering, "If you wait a few hours, I can give you a lift later."

"Yes, thank you," Catherine eagerly nods, smiling gratefully.

* * *

With the rain continously pouring down, like a greyish sheet glass, it would be more than understandable for every sane person to stay home with a cup of tea and legs wrapped in a blanket. Well it's definitely a no go for all those people in the pub.

Catherine shakes her head in disbelief as the door open again and another party of three people walk inside, many of clients yelling their greetings at them and a salvo of cheers resounding as they join a big group in the far corner. Within the last three hours McGarrett's pub filled up with about thirty customers.

All of them quite loud and jolly, gulping pitcher after pitcher. Maybe it's the atmosphere, maybe the need to blow off some steam of her own, but Cath finds herself drinking a fourth whisky along with a glass of funny looking, tourist-catching green beer.

Brown eyes sparkle up, when her new best friend - because yes, she decides that the handsome bartender, whose clothes are so warm and smell really nice, and who gladly refills her glass, is a great material for a friend - gently grabs her arm and steers her away from the group of young construction workers who were enjoying the way those sweatpants were sliding down her hips.

Steve guides her to the stool behind the counter and helps her up as her legs become a little bit wiggly.

He's not scared of anything happening to her, he knows those guys and they wouldn't cross some borders, but she was losing her control and apparently also has already lost the binding of his pants.

With her head propped on her hand, lolling slightly from side to side, Cath follows his moves as he refills some of the pitchers and puts the freshly baked crispy potatoes in a bowl, placing it before her. She didn't order them, but her stomach gladly grumbles at the wonderful smell.

Biting on a spicy potato covered with herbs, she mumbles to him, "Do you know that my mom actually told me I need to find a man like Billy?"

Whisky mixed with sweetened beer takes its toll on her, making it easier to say some things, which she would gladly keep to herself, if she was sober. But she has bottled it up for so long, having no one to talk to about it, so why shouldn't she spill her guts to the caring pub owner, who doesn't look at her sympathetically with pity?

"Seriously?!" Cath snorts and Steve finds it amazingly cute the way she scrunches up her nose while doing so, "I had a man like Billy... I had  _Billy_! For fuck's sake," a solid gulp of whisky finishes her snarl.

Suddenly a few puzzles that seemed completely irrelevant fall into one realization, which hits Steve with unexpected force. He frowns, eyeing the brunette up and down, pondering if the pieces put together are real or if it's only his imagination.

He refills another pitcher, handing it to the thirty year old woman a short distance down the counter, who's smiling at him with all her might, but he doesn't even notice it, all the more doesn't reciprocate it.

Moving closer to where Catherine is seated, he slams the cloth on the counter, pretending to be swiping it.

His voice is low and cold when he asks, "Billy Harrington?"

"Billy fucking Harrington," she growls bitterly and stuffs her mouth with another slice of baked potato. As she chews on it, the brainwave of what he just asked hits her and she swallows quickly, almost choking. Eyes scanning his face in search of any hint of suspicion, she asks confused, "Wait, huh, you know him?"

"You could say that," Steve snorts, shaking his head. Not only personally, but his family had to deal with the Harringtons for a few years now and while the elders were civilised, nice people, their only son, William, boiled Steve's blood. The sneaky asshole had tried to buy their pub and turn it into some idiotic spa or some other rich-shit.

"He's a prick," he states loudly, not caring if anyone hears him.

Besides, everyone here has a lot to say about the Harringtons, mostly using expletives.

"He is!" Catherine's overly enthusiastic response makes him chuckle. She doesn't even notice a few people looking their way, the woman who earlier tried to get Steve's attention leveling her with a murderous gaze.

Happy to find someone who shares her deeply hidden resent, Catherine continues with her rant, making expressive gestures, "Thank God, finally someone who sees it! Everyone else is just blinded by his colgate smile."

Okay, so maybe a few years ago she was one of those blinded too, but fortunately she saw through him and dumped his sorry ass. What she hadn't foreseen was her younger sister falling for him, which complicated Catherine's life.

"Billy Harrington is a dick," she repeats, eagerly nodding her head and toasting Steve with her glass of whisky. Amused by her, he takes the bottle of beer, clinks it against her glass and takes a long sip.

"Speaking of which, his cock is not that glamorous." This unexpected statement makes Steve choke on his beer, erupting in coughs, which Catherine didn't seem to recognize as something that should stop her from continuing, "Women, my sister especially, act like his dick is made of gold and can turn your cunt into a shooting star." Steve's disgusted groan goes unnoticed as she concludes, "Well, I've been there, done that, it's not that great."

Steve groans, rubbing his eyes to get rid of the awful image, "I seriously didn't need that information."

"Hey! There's quite a lot of people here, considering the weather," the abrupt change in the topic confuses him for a second and he instinctively follows her gaze as she looks around. Hope to change the subject completely, he opens his mouth to say a few things about this family business, when she speaks up again. And thank God, he's not drinking anything at the moment, because for sure he would choke to death.

"Could we hang out the leaflets stating that Billy's dick is like a flat tire? Theoretically you can ride it, but it won't get you to your destination."

He stares at her for a long moment, not sure if she's making fun of him or if it's a serious thought that crossed her slightly drunken mind. One thing's for sure, this girl is outspoken.

"No," Steve says firmly, shaking his head, "Though it is very creative," he adds chuckling.

"Thank you," Catherine beams up, a really beautiful smile, which somehow spreads warmth through Steve's body and makes him smile back at her. Her gaze suddenly focuses on a rustic ceramic bowl, filled with something green and kind of shining. "Oh, what's this?" she reaches for it, fingers dipping between the suprisingly soft, jelly-like pieces.

"Don't e-" before Steve manages to finish his sentence, a green oval disappears in her mouth, her eyes widening at the unexpected sour taste which quickly melts into sweetness, "-eat it..."

The first taste is surprising, crystals of sour popping sprinkle sending a shocking jolt, but that flavor soon changes into an apple-flavored sweetness.

"Ss gooof," Catherine mumbles, eagerly chewing on the squishy piece.

"Yeah, but doesn't look good when you throw it up all around," he cringes at the mental image of too many adventures with mixing sour jellies with alcohol, the outcome of which is disgusting to clean up.

"Huh? You wee sayin' sumthmp?" With a mouth full of apple jellies she takes a long sip of whisky, which makes Steve groan and hide the bottle of amber liquid under the counter. It's for the own good of her stomach. Gulping down the rest of spicy alcohol, she notices a glimpse of green reflecting in the mirror on the wall behind the counter. "Hey, my tongue is green!" Cath discovers and slides her tongue out all the way, looking at it with amusement.

"It's from those jellies," Steve points toward the bowl, hoping it won't encourage her to reach for another one. With a relief he welcomes Joe, who comes behind the counter to refill his and John's pitchers and takes the jellies with him.

Catherine doesn't even pay attention to it, her eyes focused on Steve as she says with excitement, "Everything is green here! The door, the sign above entrance, my tongue," tilting her head to the side, she watches him closely. The quick move of her tongue, licking over her lower lip draws his attention, but it's her next words that make him blush slightly, "Only your eyes are blue. It's a really lovely blue."

Hanging his head low, he tries to constrain the redness spreading on his cheeks. "Uh, thanks, I guess," he mumbles, scratching the back of his head nervously.

"Oh, but you have green tattoos!" the happiness in her voice at the sudden discovery makes him chuckle and he shakes his head at his newfound tipsy company.

* * *

When the door closes behind the last customer, Joe to be exact, who leaves while grumbling about John's evident cheating during their latest chess game, the clock on the wall points at 1 am. It's a normal hour for the pub to be closed, it's even quite early compared to many other nights, when Steve had to push out the lazy drunks after 3am.

Having gathered all the dishes in the kitchen, Steve locks the entrance door, checks the windows and stops by the small table near the counter, when the previously soaked brunette is dozing off, her head lolling to the side, lips slightly parted.

"Come on," he nudges her gently, watching as her eyes snap open immediately. A glassy haze fills her brown eyes and he finds it a bit disappointing that there's no challenging sparks in them anymore.

Catherine lifts her sleepy gaze up at him, for a moment trying to recognize his somehow familiar face. As her tipsy brain classifies him as that cute bartender, whose clothes smell of the salty sea, a smile spreads across her lips.

Tilting her head to the side and suppressing a small yawn, she asks softly, "You gonna ride me now?"

The question is spoken in such a melodic and delicate way, that it should be completely innocent, yet the sound of it makes Steve freeze and stutter. His eyes involuntarily sliding down her body and up back to her face. "What?" he practically chokes, using all his will to stop the tempting images from taking over his mind.

"Ride me honey," Catherine stares at him, like she had said something obvious, but after a brief contemplating she does realize something is missing in that sentence. "I mean to the honey," a small frown appears on her forehead as she tries to explain, "Ride me to the honey... that honey hotel," it's hard to remember the sweet name of that place he offered to take her to and she finishes with an exasperated sigh, "Drive me to the honey hotel."

"Honey Cottage," Steve chuckles and shakes his head, "No, I'm not. You're gonna stay here. My sister is out of town anyway, you can sleep in her room."

"Okay," she nods her head, sleepiness taking over her again and he needs to help her stand up, steering her toward the narrow staircase leading to the upper floor.

"Just for tonight," he adds, looking at her over his shoulder. He doubted that Mrs. O'Heaney would be happy to wake up in the middle of the night to let a drunken brunette in man's clothes into one of her overly flowery bedrooms. To be honest, Steve is quite exhausted too, so avoiding a twenty minutes drive in one way is a blessing.

Catherine yawns, propping her temple on his shoulder, "Okay." Right now she could curl up in some warm corner and sleep, no matter whether it was here or in some honey-scented shack.

"Tomorrow I can give you a ride to the city," Steve assures her sheepishly, feeling this weird need to explain his motives for letting her stay. But it seems she didn't even care for it, mumbling once again, "Okay."

The wooden, slightly crooked door squeaks as he opens it. A faint, yellowish light fills the small space, revealing a single bed with pink covers, an old dresser with a big, oval shaped mirror and a wall full of postcards from different places.

"Here," Steve guides the brunette inside, "It's small, but warm, dry and has a bed comfortable enough for a drunken runaway," he chuckles as she sits down on the soft bed and sighs happily, like it brought her immense relief.

He's about to leave the room, when her soft voice stops him. She is looking up at him with newfound, or maybe forced, sobriety, her brown eyes shimmering, smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"My name is Catherine," she says, blushing slightly as she realizes that she spent the whole afternoon and evening talking to him, spilling her guts, moreover wearing his clothes, while not even knowing his name.

"Catherine," he tests the sound of her name, smiling as it rolls so easily of his tongue, along with the unexpected thought that he wouldn't mind saying her name more often, "I'm Steve."

She beams up at him and says sincerely, "Thank you, Steve."


End file.
